


Timid Luck

by PlRATE



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Mad Scientist AU, captive bucky, mad scientist-y torture idk, newly captive sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:13:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2095347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlRATE/pseuds/PlRATE
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's been held captive for years; he's grown used to it, the darkness and the torture. The only stories he knows is from the two books given to him by his captor, the Doctor. There's Others that sometimes come and go around him, but he's always kept. He's lucky. So when there's a new Other, one with a name, Sam, Bucky can barely believe it. And he'll endure whatever punishment to hear Sam's stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Timid Luck

**Author's Note:**

> actually prompted from tumblr user bob-genghis-khan in the tags of one of my artworks (shown) - i had to write something for it
> 
> not sure if going to continue, but i've left it open
> 
> enjoy!

Every now and then the Doctor brings in someone new. But he always keeps Bucky. Always. It’s how things go, and Bucky knows it. He knows he should be thankful, he gets food and clothes and gets to keep his name. Some of the Others don’t get that. No, he corrects himself;  _most_  of the Others don’t get that.  _Bucky is lucky_ , as the Doctor tells him.

But sometimes he doesn’t feel lucky. He misses his arm, asks about it, and is instantly turned away. He asks if he can go outside, and is scolded. He asks if one of the Others can sit and talk with him, and he ends up locked up alone for a week. He doesn’t remember how he got there anymore, the dark around him something he’s just used to now - something he works with every day when the Doctor asks him to help moving things around, or move the Others. That’s his least favourite part, moving them. They certainly aren’t as lucky as him, and sometimes Bucky has to cover his ears just so he can’t hear them. The Doctor gave him a new arm, but he also tries to give the Others things too. Some of them don’t take to it like Bucky did, and Bucky has to move them into a special room. He doesn't know what goes on in that room but he knows it’s empty every time he comes back.

The Others don’t even get names like Bucky. They get numbers, letters, and sometimes those come together to sound like a name.  _Then_  they’re lucky. If they get clothes, then Bucky _knows_  they’re special. Once, there was an Other, her name was N12. She wasn’t too special, until the Doctor gave her clothes. Bucky remembered thinking about how this was it, he was going to have someone else to talk to.

It hurt a little bit more when he had to drag her into the room. He even asked where she went after he put her there, passed out from crying. The Doctor had just smiled and patted his head. He knew not to ask the same question twice.

Bucky was used to this. He had his own little bed to sleep on, and he could move around the Lab as much as he wanted to. The Doctor gave him two books, one with colour and the other only written in raised dots. Bucky understood what the dots said, the Doctor had taught him to read them, said  _It’s a good way to test nerves and memory, and you need that, Bucky._  He did like the dot book though; he could close his eyes in the dark and figure out the story by himself.

But then there was an Other that told him stories that he’d never read in a book.

It started like a normal day, Bucky waking up in the dark and carefully changing his clothes, moving his dirty ones to what the Doctor called laundry, but Bucky called a bucket. It’s what it is, a big bucket that leads down somewhere that Bucky doesn’t know. An endless bucket. After dropping his clothes in there, he makes his bed, tightly folding the corners in so it’s all neat. One of the conditions the Doctor had given him about this bed was that if he wanted it, he had to keep it neat and tidy. So Bucky always did.

His books are kept under his pillow, along with anything else he’s found. A bolt, a piece of copper tubing, and some twine. It’s all the Doctor would let him keep, but he still appreciates and treasures them. Each item is touched gently before Bucky leaves his room, knowing that today he might not even see the Doctor. It happens a lot, he stays out and Bucky is left alone to wander empty halls and explore rooms he’s been in a thousand times.

Bucky goes for breakfast first, gently prising open the old fridge the Doctor keeps “down here”. The Doctor says “down here” but Bucky doesn’t really know what that means, he’s pretty sure he’s above ground. Yeah. But the fridge’s door is odd, and Bucky knows he has to hold the bottom up with his foot to get it open. His breakfast is a can of peaches, which he _knows_  is more generous than he usually gets. He even hesitates before taking it, because even though the Doctor had said that anything in the fridge he could eat, these are  _fruits_. Not fresh, yes, but Bucky barely notices that as he wanders back in the direction of his room with his can of peaches, eagerly sticking his fingers in to hook out one of the soggy slices.

That’s when he first hears it.

It’s a sound he’s heard before, sure, but it’s still a break from routine. So he takes his can of peaches and quietly pads down the hall to one of the testing rooms. This is usually where the Doctor puts the Others after keeping them for a while, but Bucky hasn’t seen any Others in a while, so this is all a little confusing. It proves to keep being confusing when he pokes his head up to look through the little window, sucking on his liquid covered fingers (he’s careful not to use his artificial arm – the Doctor would hate if he got that sticky).

There’s an Other in there. He’s never seen him before, but the Doctor must think he’s special if he’s already tied down on the table. But that’s not what interests Bucky. The noises the Other had been making died as Bucky was standing up on his toes to see inside, and now he’s making a different noise. Bucky’s never heard it before, at least, not from an Other. The Doctor does it sometimes when he’s happy, it echoes and makes his chest vibrate. The Other on the table; his chest is vibrating and his mouth is open, making a noise like he’d heard from the Doctor.

Laughter. That’s it. It’s laughter. People do it when they’re happy. Bucky can’t remember the last time  _he’s_  laughed. Carefully, he puts his half empty can of peaches down on the floor next to the door, wiping his hands on his thin shorts before slowly opening the door and peeking in to get a closer look. If an Other is laughing, there must be something  _really_  good in there.

But there’s nothing, and that just confuses Bucky further. He slides in, sticks to the wall, stays close to the floor. The Doctor isn’t in here, but he can’t be far. He never leaves Others tied up like this alone for long. Bucky also knows he’ll probably get told off for going into the testing room when it’s not his turn, but he can’t help it. The Other can’t seem to stop laughing, even though it’s weak and feeble, and Bucky can’t seem to stop listening.

That’s when he realises he likes it. He likes the sound. It sounds wrong when the Doctor does it, because usually an Other has either been hurt or has survived – though the surviving part doesn’t last long. Bucky hopes he doesn’t have to move this Other to the special room and have him disappear.

But then Bucky’s small hopes are gone. The Other has seen him. There’s little light in the room, the only glow coming from the tube behind the Other on the table. Still, he knows this is enough that the Other can see him, just barely. Bucky doesn’t know what makes him more upset, that the Other has stopped laughing, or that the Other is staring at him like he has two heads. He doesn’t have two heads, he’s not that Other. That Other was put in the special room after they passed out – Bucky knows, because Bucky put them there.

The Other looks a little crazy, Bucky notices, his eyes a little wide and his fists curling against the straps that hold him there. Had the Doctor already been working on him while Bucky was asleep? It’s possible, he didn’t always wake Bucky up when he worked, and this Other is certainly in the middle of being worked on. So then where was the Doctor? He’d said that it was Bucky’s turn again one of these days, but he hadn’t given him a time and now… now the most important testing room was being used.

Bucky’s confused as he sits on the floor in the dark, knees brought up and eyes fixed on the Other, whose eyes are fixed right back. It’s not the first time Bucky has stared with one, but what happens next is something that Bucky’s not used to.

“Wha—“

The Other  _speaks._  Or, tries to. The moment words start to come out of his mouth is the second door of the testing room open, one that Bucky can’t get into. There's only a few doors like that. But that didn't matter, because the Doctor was back. Bucky knew he was in trouble by how the door slammed back, and he flinched even though the figure hadn’t seen him yet. He doesn’t even know if the Doctor is human, he’s always just a pair of towering, glowing eyes, dark head brushing the roof as he stalks in like some sort of spider.

Bucky knows he needs to leave; those glowing eyes are looking around. The only thing he leaves behind is a cut off plead from the Other and his can of peaches.

The rest of the day is spent in his room, knees brought up to his chest as he leans back against his bed and waits. He shouldn’t have gone in there. The Doctor would have known. He  _always_  does. Bucky knew he would be in trouble for this, that maybe next time it’s his turn in one of the testing rooms, the Doctor won’t put him to sleep. Or won’t hide the pain. Or will leave him strapped there overnight while the shadows hiss at him.

The Doctor  _does_  come in the end. It’s long after Bucky has stopped listening to the muffled screams, hours after Bucky’s feet have gone numb from how tight he was keeping his body together. Because he knew if the Doctor wanted, he could take Bucky apart, piece by piece. There was an Other that had endured that. Bucky could remember it, the Other hadn’t had a _name_ , but it had been nicknamed the  _Porcelain Doll._  Bucky had taken her to that room one limb at a time.

“ _Buuuucky_? Bucky, I know you’re in there.” Bucky closed his eyes, took two deep breaths, and got to his feet, almost falling over from pins and needles in his lower body. The Doctor is waiting outside, long body arched over so his shadowed face is at Bucky’s level. “I know you were in there with Sam today.” The only thing Bucky focuses on is that the Other has a  _name_. He has a name. He has a name and he  _laughs._  Bucky can’t think of anything better. Maybe he’ll get clothes too. But then there’s a needle-filled hand wrapped around his chin, bringing him back to attention.

“You know how I know?” The fear is back, a fear Bucky knows is going to be with him for the rest of the night. So Bucky just nods as best he can, being pulled up onto his toes as the Doctor straightens up, his hand sliding away with the sort of finesse that such a horrible thing shouldn’t have. Before Bucky can prepare, there’s a slosh against his chest, and the impact of something hard and round.

_A limb._  Bucky’s first thought is that the Other— _Sam_  has been chopped up and part of him is being thrown at Bucky as punishment for getting curious. He’s almost too scared to look down, but the Doctor’s head tilts and Bucky knows he has to. Bucky almost _sobs_  with relief when it’s just peach juice, the can on the ground between his feet.

“If I’m going to give you a treat, you need to learn how to keep it safe, and appreciate it. Don’t try me again, Bucky. Remember, you’re lucky. Now wash up, get some sleep. You’re going to have some work done tomorrow.”

And just like that, he’s gone. Bucky is left alone with a soaked shirt and a half empty can of peaches. He’s not even sure if he’s  _wet_  himself he’s so scared. The last time he had some work done, the Doctor almost took out his eye to test if he could replace it like he had Bucky’s arm. It was halfway out of the socket before the Doctor changed his mind and popped it back in, leaving Bucky with a sore skull and a bandaged face for two days.

But out of all the things Bucky chooses for comfort about the impending work; it’s Sam. The mystery Other. The man on the table who had  _laughed._  Bucky chose to think about him. And then, he was moving before he knew it, the peach can ignored on the ground as he went back outside. If the Doctor was still around, he knew he would just be in more trouble, but he had to know. And there was a good chance the Doctor had just gone to his own room, and that would be it for the night. Bucky was torn between hoping that Sam was still in one piece and that the Doctor had gone to bed.

It turned out that Sam was still on the table. Sure, he was asleep, and from what Bucky could see though the little window, pretty worn. But he was still in one piece, and Bucky knew the Doctor didn’t leave them on the table if they’d died. He’d been around long enough to learn that. This time when he stepped inside the room, he was just as careful as he had been before, except this time he knew if he was caught, it wouldn’t end well for him. A wet shirt was nothing. Well, except maybe if the shirt was stitched to his chest. But that was another Other, another story.

Sam wasn’t asleep. Bucky came to this realisation with a jolt as he closed the door quietly behind him. He knew because the breathing he’d heard had stopped. No one holds their breath like that if they’re not scared. Bucky knew that too. But he couldn’t run now. Sam might get clothes. Sam might be allowed to stay. Maybe the Doctor would just take his legs. That would be okay, Sam might be able to survive that.

But for now, Bucky can only turn, slowly pressing his back to the wall as he slid down to sit on the floor, eyes watching and eyes watching  _back._  Sam is looking at him again. He looks tired, one eye puffy. Bucky knows how that usually happens. The Others fight back, spit and bite. Bucky remembers way back, when he did the same. He stopped after the Doctor fixed his arm (his old, original one had been broken, the Doctor had told him afterwards, when he’d survived).

“Who—Who are you?” Sam speaks. It’s hesitant, because the last time he spoke with Bucky around, he was interrupted. But this time, it’s just him and Bucky, one strapped to a table, the other hiding and hunched against the wall.

Bucky doesn’t speak. He doesn’t speak with Others until he knows they’re safe to talk to. So he lets the question hang until Sam licks his lips and tries again.

“Where… Where am I?”

“Home.” That’s what Bucky knows it as, so that’s what he gives Sam. He’s been here as long as he can remember.

“H… What? That’s not…” Sam is tired, Bucky can see it plain as the light that seeps out from under the iron door of the special room, but that doesn’t stop him trying his best to figure out what happened. Bucky understands that, every Other does it. It’s when they stop trying to figure it out that the pain stops.

“Home. It’s home.” Bucky repeats himself from his dark position, knees brought up and hair covering his eyes. He knows he needs to stay as hidden as possible, so he can be confused with something else, something hidden, and Sam won’t bring this up with the Doctor later.

“This… This ain’t home. Home isn’t fuckin’ dark. Home is my house, with the oak in the yard. Home… This… This isn’t home. Please…” Sam breaking into pleading doesn’t surprise Bucky either, but Bucky still feels a tad bad anyway. He feels even worse at his next comment, but doesn’t let it show. “Please… I have a sister. Mother. I… Please…”

“Tell me about home.” Bucky can’t do anything to stop Sam breaking, but he can do something for himself. It would be selfish for anyone else, but he’s been so long without speaking company that he’s almost desperate for it. When Sam chokes back something and looks over to him again, confusion in his face, Bucky repeats himself. “Tell me about home.”

Sam is confused; it’s plain on his face. Bucky is a dark hunch in the shadows, hair over his face and knobbly knees stuck in front of him; why would he be asking? Even the Doctor didn’t ask that sort of question. He’d asked… others.  _Do you need your liver? Any sort of health problems?_

But Sam doesn’t know what else to do, his head is spinning and all he knows is his body is buzzing with something that isn’t anything  _good_  – so he tells Bucky about home. And Bucky is amazed.

It’s a different home than Bucky’s ever heard of. One full of crunching autumn leaves and scraped knees. One of smelling treats and then fighting your sister for the best cookie of the batch. One of friends and sunshine, picnics and hikes. A sky as blue as the light shining from behind Sam’s head, clouds as white as bleached bone, and a sun as warm as the feeling Bucky can feel start to grow in his chest.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, shuffling closer and closer as Sam tells his story, voice feeble and weak but determined, like Bucky’s not the only one focusing on what he’s saying. In the end, he falls asleep in the middle of saying something about his mother, and Bucky is left alone as Sam rests.

Bucky gets up and touches Sam’s cheek, making sure he’s still okay. Sam’s stories are better than any book he owns, more emotion filled than the book with colour, and with more ability to feel than the one with raised dots. Bucky wants more, and he makes sure Sam is okay before he leaves.

The next day is different. Bucky changes, makes his bed, and wraps his twine around his wrist in a knot. It comforts him as he shuffles past Sam’s door (Sam is okay, still asleep, with no more visible damage or bruises) and keeps going to the next testing room. His testing room.

Later, Bucky can barely walk. He has bandages wrapped twice around his middle, compressing down on the absence of at least a kilo of flesh missing from his back. It hurts badly, not as badly as some of the things the Doctor has done to him, but it’s up there. Bucky is crying as he slowly unties the twine (now bloody) from around his wrist and puts it with the rest of his things.

The only thing he can do is sit on his bed and try not to cry, because that just makes the remaining skin on his back heave and  _sting._  The Doctor hadn’t told him what he was going to do with it, but Bucky doesn’t care. It could be a sample; it could be for something else. He never knows, and he’s happy that way.

It’s late into the night and Bucky’s still awake. He doesn’t have a way of telling time in the dark, so he relies on his body clock, which has adapted. Bucky feels the need to sleep, so he knows it’s night time, but the pain in his back means he can’t lie down. It hurts too much.

So he goes and finds Sam again. Carefully, he sneaks into Sam’s room, finding that he’d been worked on again, the bruises fresh and a new wound on his chest. He hopes the Doctor doesn’t plan to take Sam’s heart, that never ends well and Bucky really doesn’t want Sam to die.

But Sam is awake again, and he sees Bucky come in and gingerly sit in his spot again. “Y… Y’here again? I thought you were a dream…” Bucky understands that, too. It’s why he’d wanted to hide last time, so if needed, he could disappear and Sam wouldn’t suspect anything. But he doesn’t want to disappear. Sam is the only one in months that has been alive this long, has been able to talk. Bucky can’t waste that. He  _can’t._

“Tell me more about home.” Bucky is desperate, the pain in his back keeping him alert, keeping everything sharp.

“Let me out.” Sam’s voice is precise now. Bucky knows this too. Bargaining. He’d heard it happen with the Others when the Doctor was working on them, but it never worked.

“Tell me more about home.”

“Let me out.”

“Tell me more about home.”

“ _Please._ ”

“Home.”

Sam sighs, it’s long and pained, and his head lolls back, breath quietening for a moment. “What’s your name?”

That hit Bucky by surprise. The Others usually never asked for  _his_  name. He’s so surprised he forgets what it is for a moment, and he fumbles, stammering something else before finally coming out with “B-B- _Bucky_. My-My name is Bucky.” It’s the first unscripted, unprepared thing to come out of his mouth, and it sounds  _young_. Bucky can see it in Sam’s eyes when he glances over again, brows hitched up slightly.

“How long have you been here?”

“This is home.” Bucky feels strange, awkward, so he falls back into scripted words. Sam just sighs again, hands and fingers flexing before he tries again.

“ _Can_  you let me go?”

“… No.” Bucky would  _never._  He can’t touch the straps until the Doctor says so, and that’s only to move Others around. If he ever tried it otherwise… Bucky starts to shiver, which just makes the pain in his back flare up, causing him to cry out slightly and hunch.

“Hey-hey, you okay? Are you hurt?” The  _too_  in Sam’s words are bitten off, like Sam’s still resisting to admit he’s been beaten. But regardless of this, he genuinely looks  _concerned._ “I-I heard some noises before, when there was no one around. Was… Was that you?”

Bucky looks up, tears pricking in his eyes from the pain. So Sam had been awake when he was being worked on. Swallowing, he shuffled a little closer into the light so Sam could more easily see him nod.

“I… Okay.” And then there’s silence. The only thing that is heard is their breathing, Bucky’s tight and controlled, Sam’s more relaxed but still alert. Finally, it’s Sam who speaks again.

“Do you still want to hear about home?”

“Yes.”

And Sam tells him more. Except this time, Sam understands. Sam stretches, Sam exaggerates. Sam adds bright and colourful lights. Sam adds soft sheets and an open field. Sam adds chirping rainbow birds and trees as tall as the sky. Bucky’s in tears by the time Sam has to stop, and it’s not because of the pain.

This time when Sam sleeps, he says goodnight first. He says sorry. Bucky doesn’t know why, but he knows Sam doesn’t have to be sorry. Bucky is there beside him when Sam falls asleep, and he reaches out to touch Sam’s hand. The first real hand he’s felt in months. One that isn’t connected to something dead.

Because Sam is alive. Sam is bursting with the sunlight he talks about, Sam is as free as the birds in the sky he’s created in Bucky’s head. And Bucky holds onto that. He holds onto it as he goes back to his own bed and tries to sleep. Bucky dreams of a blue sky, of rainbow birds and the smell of cookies, a smell he doesn’t even  _know._  He dreams of Sam, in the middle of a green field, his face untarnished and his gaped teeth spread in a smile.

Bucky sleeps better than he has in years.


End file.
